That nagging feeling

I completed my preflight inspection and put some air in the tires. I double-checked the cowl fasteners. (I do so ever since I declared an emergency when one came flying out just after takeoff.) The oil level was fine. I topped off the fuel. Everything looked good. I started up the airplane and completed my start-up checklist. Engine running smoothly, no hitches. After talking to clearance and ground I taxied to Runway 28 into the run-up pad. The winds were about 10 knots out of the west. I completed my run-up checklist. Everything appeared in working order. Tower cleared me for takeoff, and I was on my way.

As I climbed out, however, I was uneasy, and I couldn’t figure out why. All the gauges looked fine. Nothing seemed to be wrong. Call it intuition or a premonition, but deep down I knew that something bad was going to happen.

I requested 4,500 feet as a cruise altitude. Departure cleared me to proceed on course. I leveled off upon reaching 4,500 feet and leaned the mixture. I still had that nagging feeling. I kept scanning the instruments looking for a problem, but everything looked completely normal. And then it happened.

The engine suddenly made a horrible noise, as if it cried out and sputtered. The rpm (previously at around 2,450 in cruise) suddenly dropped down to around 1,900, and in seconds I lost 500 feet of altitude. My heart felt like it stopped, but then my brain took over. I instinctively enriched the mixture and advanced the throttle to full power. I glanced at the fuel tanks that were on Both, and I glanced at the G2 analyzer, which indicated cylinder 3 was totally dead. I checked the magnetos and verified I hadn’t missed anything on the engine failure checklist. I looked at the GPS. I was 22 nautical miles from Albany.

At this point only about 20 seconds had gone by since I lost the third cylinder. I quickly assessed the data and the situation. I was maintaining 4,000 feet with full power. The winds were 20 to 30 knots at my altitude. Albany and Schenectady (SCH) were the closest airports with fire and rescue available on site. I was closer to Fulton County (NY0), but I would have to fight the wind to get there. It was 11 miles away, and they had no fire and rescue. If the engine totally quit on the way to Fulton County, I wouldn’t make it. If I headed back toward Albany and Schenectady I would have the benefit of a tailwind, multiple small airports along the way I might be able to reach if the engine completely quit, and fire and rescue on site. I knew it was inevitable that the engine would completely fail at some point, but I had no way of knowing how much time I had.

All of this went through my mind in about 10 seconds, and I was on the mic calling Albany Approach as I began turning the airplane eastward. Thirty seconds total had gone by. I told Albany the engine was running rough, and that I believed I lost a cylinder. They asked if I needed assistance. I indicated the situation was urgent, but that I did not require assistance yet, and I would advise if something changed. At the time, I asked myself, “is a partial failure an emergency?” I didn’t know. I was aware that the entire engine could quit at any time, but 75 percent of it was still working as far as I could tell. I seemed to be losing a bit of altitude, but it wasn’t really much. I determined I would declare an emergency if I lost another cylinder, or if the situation seemed to deteriorate further in any way.

In retrospect, this is one thing I would have done differently if it happened again. A partial engine failure should always be regarded as an emergency. In all my flight training and hours (about 400), I practiced lots of emergencies, but any related to an engine failure always involved a complete failure. They are very straightforward. A partial failure is far more complex. There is no time to vacillate. Any wishy-washiness is lost altitude and a relative domino effect of problems leading to catastrophe.

So, I trudged along back to Albany. I lost a bit of altitude, but overall not much. The airplane was violently vibrating. It looked like the cowling might break apart. I divided my attention between the G2 analyzer, the instruments, and the radio. I watched that little blue circle on ForeFlight like a hawk—the one that tells you how far you can get on best glide. I felt increased confidence every time one of the small airfields came inside the circle.

Before I knew it, I was on the ground in Albany, sputtering along. I parked outside of the hangar and shut down the airplane. And then I waited a few minutes for my hands to stop shaking. My seatbelt was still on. I picked up my phone and dialed Rich Klein, a pilot and the maintenance officer of my flying club.

Rich arrived and we removed the cowling. And there it was: a bent pushrod on cylinder 3. 4GW was going to need a cardiac catheterization. Had I caused it somehow? Thus far with the analysis that has been done, the only thing that has been identified is that no one had been leaning the mixture enough while the airplane was on the ground.

I will leave you with one last pearl. Whether you believe you can, or you believe you cannot, you are probably right. If you need something to believe in, start with yourself. I always tell myself I can do it, I can handle it, whatever the situation. Not that I don’t have moments of self-doubt, but I have trained my inner voice to repeat positive self-talk when I am fearful. If you don’t do this, I suggest you start now. Your entire life will be better because of it.

Amanda M. Stahl, M.D. is an instrument-rated private pilot with tailwheel and high performance endorsements in Rexford, New York.